10. Romy
10
romy
T he waiting room for visitors at Arnold County Jail smelled like sweat and dusty, vintage fabric. My legs scratched against the rough, rust-colored threads of the chair—chairs that had probably been here since the ’80s. Two other visitors waited, staring into their hands, brows tense, and … bored. Cell phones, wallets, and purses were stashed in lockers at the last checkpoint, leaving us all to occupy ourselves with nothing but our thoughts. For me, it was the swirling realization that I was about to meet with an inmate. The room was windowless, as small as the pantry in the big house. Cinder block walls were caked with beige industrial paint, sucking out every bit of vibrancy.
How was this my life now?
The heavy fire door across the room gave a few clicks, the mechanical lock deactivating, followed by a loud beep. A female guard stepped through.
“Romy Miller!” she bellowed as if I were standing amid a crowd of hundreds instead of sitting in an airtight room of three.
“That’s me.” I got to my feet.
“Follow me.” Lines bracketed her mouth as though she never smiled.
I followed her past the door.
The door closed behind me, automatically locking in my wake. I flinched, hearing the finality of that click. It was settling in now that my sister was confined here.
I followed the guard down a long hallway, and small, thick, glass windows punctuated the hall, giving a glimpse of trees outside. The jail was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods.
We walked through another door into a room where cubicles divided by glass separated visitors from the inmates.
“Number six,” she barked at me, stalling in her steps to guard the door.
I nodded, walking past her.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
Hazel sat behind the glass, dressed in orange, her wrists shackled. Her blonde hair was dry and stringy around her slouched shoulders. Dark circles shadowed her grayish-green eyes, tears tracking down her pale cheeks at the sight of me. My rodeo darling sister, who always had her hair perfectly curled and her makeup flawless, looked broken and older than her thirty-two years.
I hustled into the metal chair, grabbing the red phone off the partitioned wall. Hazel hesitantly picked up hers.
All I heard was my name through muffled sobs.
“Hi, sis,” I said in greeting, my nose stinging while I struggled to hold back my own tears.
She slammed her hand against her mouth, her face crumpling at my voice.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I told her. We both knew it wasn’t okay.
I didn’t know what else to say, so I waited, letting her breathe, trying to regain control of her emotions. Allowing the time I needed to gather my own.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Her voice was stained with tears.
I nearly lost it, swallowing down the burning knot. “I’m here now.”
“We don’t have much time. They could take me back to my cell at any moment, but I need you to know …” Her voice waned as she took in a shuddering inhale.
“Anything,” I encouraged. Though I knew she wouldn’t be able to tell me everything. They were listening. She had to be careful what she said.
“I love you, and I did what I needed to do.”
I gulped. She did what she needed to do? “Don’t say anything you shouldn’t,” I warned, looking around at the guards who were stationed at the doors.
The room had the same cinder block walls as the waiting room with beige industrial paint, but behind Hazel, even on the glass, graffitied greetings, curses, names, and numbers adorned the surface.
“Did you get everything packed up?” she asked.
“Yes. Chuck said he can store the boxes in the garage for you if you’d rather do that. I haven’t rented out a storage unit yet.”
“He doesn’t have to do that, but I know those Larsen men are stubborn pains in the asses.” She snorted a small laugh.
“That they are.” I cracked a smile at her laugh and at the said Larsen men. “Jude helped me pack everything up, but we didn’t find what you had for me.”
“So Jude’s back?” Her brows raised and her lips curved. “How’s that going?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I narrowed my eyes. Sister-teasing picking up right where it left off over a decade ago.
She shrugged. “Pretty sure there was a reason why you cut everyone off—and it wasn’t just because of Dad, shitty kids at school, and you being sick of small-town livin’.”
Chuck was dropping hints as if he needed to play matchmaker, and now my sister. I had to redirect this conversation. It wasn’t why I was here.
I had spent another restless night, super aware of Jude’s presence in the next room. The attraction was still there, maybe even more so—I mean, the man had only become sexier—but I wasn’t ready to process my feelings for him. Part of me was still that confused, eighteen-year-old girl. The old feelings were there, but some new feelings, too. It almost felt as though I couldn’t breathe around him … like my heart squeezed every time I saw that cute, lopsided grin of his. Over a decade might have passed, but that grin was still the same one that was imprinted in my memory.
“Something like that,” I dismissed, releasing the air from my lungs. Just thinking about him made my chest tight. “Anyway, I couldn’t find what you wanted me to look for.”
She nodded. “Figured as much.” Her eyes shifted to the guards around the room. “How’s Bronte?”
Really? She’s going to change the subject and ask about her horse?
Her eyes grew wide with a knowing look, and she nodded.
Oh. I think I was picking up what she was putting down.
“You need me to check on Bronte for you?” I asked for confirmation.
She nodded again and loosened a deep breath. “Thank you, sis.”
A guard marched over to Hazel. “Time to go.” The guard leaned down to the chair leg with a key to unlock Hazel’s ankle shackles from the cubicle.
“I know you’ll find what you’re looking for,” Hazel said. “I love you.”
And she hung up the phone.
I kept the phone pressed to my ear, listening to the dead air as I watched her close herself back off.
She gave me a forlorn smile, while the guard grabbed her elbow and ushered her away.
“Visiting hours are over,” the guard behind me announced.
I returned the phone to the receiver on the wall.
Whatever she needed me to find was in Bronte’s stall. She had to know then. She had to know that someone would find whatever it was in the bunkhouse, so she hid it.
Did she do it then? Was this planned?
Was my perfect, responsible big sister a murderer?